The lights were too bright, burning her eyelids, and there was a repetitive high-pitched noise coming from somewhere close by. Raleigh shuddered and that small muscle movement sent shockwaves of pain through her whole system. Breathless, she froze in place and clamped down on the sudden urge to cry.

{You have to understand the building blocks of the story before you can tell it.}

Raleigh’s now dampened eyelids twitched as the voice murmured underneath the increasing outside noise. Rumbling and tumbling and squeaking and bat-signals at four-hundred decibels all shifted slightly, not so much lessening as making room for the additional sound of that voice. It was calm, soothing, and sounded a lot like Stephen J. Dubner. Was there a radio near by... wherever she was? Was Freakonomics even on the radio? She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually listened to a real radio. It sounded like it - crackling slightly with static. Familiar. Of course it was.

{Raleigh.} It paused. {It’s the building blocks that are important... do you understand?}

She tried to nod, dimly aware that she had to be dreaming. But the movement of her head brought another shockwave of glistening pain and sick-smelling sweat. She couldn’t nod. Why was Stephen Dubner talking to her? What did he care if she could tell a story?

{What is a story in it’s purest form? It’s an event, isn’t it? This thing, that led to the next thing, that led to the next thing in a sequence.}

She remembered suddenly, in excruciating detail, the yellowed teeth and pleased, malevolent stare of the man in the shadows. His surprisingly smooth hands gripping her wrists like a vice, her throat like a silken rope. Jesus, her throat hurt. It burned. And then the rest of the night came back to her in one fell swoop - what did that phrase even mean anyway? Thinking about the etymology of the saying was easier than remembering that calm, unrelenting voice penetrating her pain in the smog-studded moonlight. What had it said? Rising? From what? What the hell had it been? Why was it back? Had she completely lost her mind? Would she spend the rest of her life-

{...listening?}

The soothing voice didn’t change in tone, but she felt the intent deepen all the same - felt a slow molten burn through the insides of her veins, like her blood had become something smooth and unnaturally thick and it wanted to spill out and boil something. Gold. Liquid gold. That was familiar too. She heard a soft choking sound and the pissantly loud whine nearby began a whole new pattern. The choking sound was her. Air. She needed air. She was dead. What did she need air for? But death couldn’t feel like this, could it? All pain and boiling golden blood and Stephen Dubner? She knew all that podcast listening would do something strange to her brain eventually, hadn’t she? Dimly, she’d known. Maybe not dead. Maybe this was brain cancer. Maybe-

She couldn’t think anymore between the pain and the aching and the choking and the burning and the simple, untroubled voice saying, {If you wanted to get philosophical for a minute, you could say America was the cradle of the world’s dissenters... If we didn’t have a bunch of dissenters we wouldn’t have a country right now to start with. You’re a dissenter. You get a number of people doing it and it can carry quite a way.}

Raleigh felt the molten gold in her veins soften and cool.

{You’re going to leave this place.} The voice sighed, annoyed. {You’re in pain. It happens. Move on.}

“Ms. Davis?”

Raleigh twitched at the new voice. She wasn’t dead; just crazy. Back to the beginning again.

{No time for thoughts like that.}

‘What do you know? You’re a figment of my imagination.’ She tried to speak, but her lips felt swollen, sore, and stung when they moved.

The worst of the strident sounds ended abruptly. “Ms. Davis?”

{No time for thoughts like that either.}

“You’re at Los Angeles Medical Center. You survived an attack. You’re safe now. How are you feeling?”

She would have laughed if she could. Her body felt like she’d been under a ten car pileup and there was an alien made out of molten metal inside of her skin.

{Open your eyes.}

Raleigh did, half-expecting to see the author of Freakonomics right in front of her. The voice had been getting clearer and clearer, the static retreating inch by inch. But he wasn’t there. There was just the searing fluorescent ceiling of an otherwise bland hospital room, with a wooden door. Through the window panel, she could see the back of a police officer. “Wuh-wha-” Her mouth was dry as paste, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. The nurse beside the bed poured a little dixie cup of water and passed it to her. Raleigh sipped, clearing her throat. The vibration hurt in a rumbling razor kind of way. “What-” She glanced at the door again and the nurse followed her gaze.

“In a minute. Let’s check your vitals now while you’re awake.”

Raleigh sat in the bed, dizzy with the light and the pulsating, mercurial gold... She stared at her fingers, half expecting to see them radiating the unnatural glow she felt, but they didn’t. They looked normal. As normal as a bruised and scraped hand with torn nails could. She was clean though, despite the blood. They’d cleaned her. They’d bandaged her elbows - what was wrong with her elbows? - how had she slept through a sponge bath? - She blinked at the blue paper dress she was wearing. Full body sponge bath. Well, that was embarrassing. Was it? Not her fault. Still. Being found by strangers in an alley and then being undressed and bathed by all new strangers... yeah. Definitely embarrassing.

The gold in her veins wanted her to move. Get out of bed. Stand up. Leave this useless equipment behind. Useless? She hurt! Every breath was excruciating. She hissed a little as the nurse lifted her arm, shifting her in the bed. ‘Focus,’ she told herself. ‘Just breathe. Oh God, okay, don’t breathe. Don’t breathe at all and maybe she’ll leave you alone long enough to whimper in peace and private.’ She tried to find a part of her that didn’t hurt to focus on, but she couldn’t discern one. There had to be some part of her that wasn’t throbbing, stinging, aching, or trying to shove ice crystals out through her chest. Eventually, finally, the nurse left. She might have said something. Raleigh didn’t hear it. The gold was back and the boiling heat was a relief from the other mundane pains. Would leaving here make her stop hurting? No. This wasn't a passing 'ouch'. She didn’t need her hallucination to tell her that.

He didn’t feel like a hallucination, though. Just... internal? Did that make sense? Wasn’t the sign that you were crazy the point where you stopped being able to differentiate between reality and fantasy? Which was which?

What time was it? She started to ask, but then there was no point. She knew already. 9:54pm. Glancing up, she saw a clock on the wall. How long? How long had she been out? She had no idea. What day was it?

“Are you feeling up to speaking with the police, Ms. Davis?”

Raleigh’s head swiveled - pain shot through her torso - she saw the nurse in the doorway. A man in a cheap suit stood behind her. Not the officer, then.

“Five minutes,” the nurse told the man, warningly, and stood by the door like some kind of pink-scrubbed watch dog.

As the policeman began to speak, Raleigh tried hard to focus. His words were like porridge in her brain, sticky and wet and mushed together. Was she in trouble? Had she done something wrong? She’d only ever gotten one speeding ticket - and okay, maybe she’d deserved it, but she’d paid her fine, hadn’t she? Oh, God, that parking ticket. She’d gotten it at the beginning of the month... damn it, she’d known she should have paid it right when she got home. Stupid purse, stupid forgetful brain. They couldn’t arrest her for that, could they? Didn't she get twenty days to pay?

“...Reginald Wallis...”

Raleigh blinked at the unfamiliar name, her attention zeroing in on the detective’s mouth.

“...Ms. Davis?”

“Raleigh,” Raleigh said, still lost. “Who?”

“I told you she just woke up,” the nurse said from the door. "And she's been through quite a lot..."

“The man you were found with, Ms. Davis.” The detective had apparently decided to ignore both her and the pepto-bismol colored doorstop.

Shit, shit, shit. Her head hurt.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She stared. What happened?

“Did you know Wallis?”

“No,” she breathed shallow. Anything more made her nauseous. “No. I didn’t. I was going to my car. He-”

“Wallis,” the detective interjected, scribbling on a notepad.

“-grabbed me. He- he- he-” ‘Stop blubbering, moron,’ she told herself sternly. “Jesus, can I get an Advil or something?”

“You’re on a morphine drip, Raleigh,” the nurse informed her gently.

“I’m being interrogated while you’ve got me on opiates?” Raleigh’s brows tugged together. “Seriously? Isn’t that... illegal or something?”

“You’re not being interrogated, Ms. Davis. We’re looking to get an understanding of what happened.”

She turned her wide, glassy blue eyes on his cheap suit and thumb-stained notepad. Was he blind? Couldn’t he just look at her and see what the hell had happened? Did it look like she’d been out for a midnight stroll with a dear friend?

“You’re a very lucky young woman, Ms. Davis.”

“Am I?” she muttered acerbically.

“We’ve matched Wallis’ prints to several homicides in the county.”

She flexed her hand on the bedspread and immediately regretted it. “Color me surprised.”

“I’d really like to hear, in your words, what happened.”

“He grabbed me,” she said again, her eyes falling shut. “He tried to kill me.” Her voice sounded detached even to her. “We didn’t chat.”

“And then?”

“And then what?” she asked, exhausted and exasperated. “I thought I was dead. Then I woke up here. On totally ineffective morphine, apparently.”

“And Wallis was alive?”

“Obviously-” The word slipped off her tongue, before the sense of what the detective had said hit her. Dead. He was dead. Oh... oh... oh... oh, God. Had she- had she really-

{Yeah,} Stephen Dubner murmured in her gold-filled veins, {Brace yourself.}

That unlocking seed pod... that flurry of energy... that inception of golden radio talkshowhost... Shit, shit, shit... It was like it was happening all over again. Like that wash of formless hot liquid energy was wandering through the card catalogue of her brain, tugging out boxes and upending them, cards spilling out ineffectually all over the floor. Everything... everything was different. Not wrong. Maybe wrong. God, yes, wrong, according to everything she’d ever thought. She’d killed someone. Somehow. She knew, deep down, that that keyword ‘was’ was definitely her fault. She’d wanted his brain to explode.

“We’ve gotten confirmation from the morgue that his cause of death was an aneurism.”

Oh, goofy shit mother of fucking God. She’d killed a man. A murderer, okay. A batshit crazy asshole who’d beaten her up and then strangled her. Okay. But now she was the murderer, wasn’t she? The continuation of a cycle; the Red Violin; her humanity cracked and dusty and falling away.

{There is a phenomena that psychologists and economists talk about, the endowment effect. When something is yours, and when you’ve attached value to it, you inflate the value of it because it is yours.}

“Shut up,” she said, tired. "Please."

"I think it's time for some rest now, Detective."

He nodded, standing. “You’re safe now, Ms. Davis.”

This time, she did laugh. And it hurt. But it was worth it. Safe. Ha. She’d never be safe again.

**


The lights were too bright, burning through her eyelids, and there was a repetitive high-pitched blaring noise coming from somewhere close by. Raleigh shuddered slightly and that small flickering of muscles sent shockwaves of pain through her whole system. Breathless, she froze in place and clamped down on the sudden urge to cry.

{You have to understand the building blocks of the story before you can tell it.}

Raleigh’s eyelids flickered slightly as the voice murmured underneath the increasing outside noise. Rumbling and tumbling and squeaking and bat-signals at four-hundred decibels all shifted slightly, not so much lessening as making room for the additional sound of that voice. It was calm, soothing, and sounded a lot like Stephen J. Dubner. Was there a radio near by... wherever she was? Was Freakonomics even on the radio? It sounded like it - crackling slightly with static. Familiar. Of course it was.

{Raleigh.} It paused. {It’s the building blocks that are important... do you understand?}

She tried to nod, dimly aware that she had to be dreaming. But the movement of her head brought another shockwave of glistening pain that brought sick-smelling sweat to bear right above her eyebrows. She couldn’t nod. Why was Stephen Dubner talking to her? What did he care if she could tell a story?

{What is a story in it’s purest form? It’s an event, isn’t it? This thing, that led to the next thing, that led to the next thing in a sequence.}

She remembered suddenly, in excruciating detail, the yellowed teeth and pleased, malevolent stare of the man in the shadows. His surprisingly smooth hands gripping her wrists like a vice, her throat like a silken rope. Jesus, her throat hurt. It felt like burning. And then the rest of the night came back to her in one fell swoop - what did that phrase even mean anyway? Thinking about the etymology of the saying was easier than remembering that calm, unrelenting voice penetrating her pain in the smog-studded moonlight. What had it said? Rising? From what? What the hell had it been? Why was it back? Had she completely lost her mind? Would she spend the rest of her life-

{...listening?}

The soothing voice didn’t change in tone, but she felt the intent deepen all the same - felt a slow molten burn through the insides of her veins, like her blood had become something smooth and unnaturally thick and it wanted to spill out and boil something. Gold. Liquid gold. That was familiar too. She heard a soft choking sound and the pissantly loud whine nearby began a new pattern of blaring. The choking sound was her. Air. She needed air. She was dead. What did she need air for? But death couldn’t feel like this, could it? All pain and boiling golden blood and Stephen Dubner? She knew all that podcast listening would do something strange to her brain eventually, hadn’t she? Dimly, she’d known. Maybe not dead. Maybe this was brain cancer. Maybe-

Then she couldn’t think anymore between the pain and the aching and the choking and the burning and the simple, untroubled voice saying, {If you wanted to get philosophical for a minute, you could say America was the cradle of the world’s dissenters... If we didn’t have a bunch of dissenters we wouldn’t have a country right now to start with. You’re a dissenter. You get a number of people doing it and it can carry quite a way.}

Raleigh felt the molten gold in her veins soften and cool.

{You’re going to leave this place.} The voice sighed, annoyed. {You’re in pain. It happens. It’s worse for others than it is for you.}

“Ms. Davis?”

Raleigh twitched at the new voice. She wasn’t dead; just crazy. Back to the beginning again.

{No time for thoughts like that.}

‘What do you know? You’re a figment of my imagination.’ She tried to speak, but her lips felt swollen, sore, and stung when they moved.

The worst of the strident sounds ended abruptly. “Ms. Davis?”

{No time for thoughts like that either.}

“You’re at Los Angeles Medical Center. You survived an attack. You’re safe now. How are you feeling?”

Safe? She would have laughed if she could. Her body felt like she’d been under a ten car pileup and there was an alien made out of molten metal inside of her skin.

{Open your eyes.}

Raleigh did, half-expecting to see the author of Freakonomics right in front of her. The voice had been getting clearer and clearer, the static retreating inch by inch. But he wasn’t there. There was just the searing fluorescent ceiling of an otherwise bland hospital room, with a wooden door. Through the window panel, she could see the back of a police officer. “Wuh-wha-” Her mouth was dry as paste, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. The nurse beside the bed poured a little dixie cup of water and passed it to her. Raleigh sipped, clearing her throat. The vibration hurt in a rumbling razor kind of way. “What-” She glanced at the door again and the nurse followed her gaze.

“They’ll be in in a moment. Let’s just check your vitals now while you’re awake.”

She sat in the bed, dizzy with the light and the pulsating, mercurial gold... She stared at her fingers, half expecting to see them radiating the unnatural glow she felt, but they didn’t. They looked normal. Well, as normal as a bruised and scraped hand with torn nails could. She was clean though, despite the blood. They’d cleaned her. They’d bandaged her elbows - what was wrong with her elbows? - how had she slept through a sponge bath? - She blinked at the blue paper dress she was wearing. Full body sponge bath. Well, that was embarrassing. Was it? Not her fault. Still. Being found by strangers in an alley under a another stranger and then being undressed and bathed by all new strangers... yeah. Definitely embarrassing.

The gold in her veins wanted her to move. Get out of bed. Stand up. Leave this useless equipment behind. Useless? She hurt! Every breath was excruciating. She hissed a little as the nurse lifted her arm, shifting her in the bed. ‘Focus,’ she told herself. ‘Just breathe. Oh God, okay, don’t breathe. Don’t breathe at all and maybe she’ll leave you alone long enough to whimper in peace and private.’ She tried to find a part of her that didn’t hurt to focus on, but she couldn’t discern one. There had to be some part of her that wasn’t throbbing, stinging, aching, or trying to shove ice crystals out through her chest. Eventually, finally, the nurse left. She might have said something. Raleigh didn’t hear it. The gold was back and the boiling heat was a relief from the other mundane pains. Would leaving hear make her stop hurting? No. She didn’t need her hallucination to tell her that. He didn’t feel like a hallucination, though. Just... internal? Did that make sense? Wasn’t the sign that you were crazy the point where you stopped being able to differentiate between reality and fantasy? Which was which?

What time was it? She started to ask, but then there was no point. She knew already. 9:54pm. Glancing up, she saw a clock on the wall. How long? How long had she been out? She had no idea. What day was it?

“Are you feeling up to speaking with the police, Ms. Davis?”

Raleigh’s head swiveled - pain shot through her torso - she saw the nurse in the doorway. A man in a cheap suit stood behind her.

“Five minutes,” the nurse told the man, warningly, and stood by the door like some kind of pink-scrubbed watch dog.

As the policeman began to speak, Raleigh tried hard to focus. His words were like porridge in her brain, sticky and wet and mushed together. Was she in trouble? Had she done something wrong? She’d only ever gotten one speeding ticket - and okay, maybe she’d deserved it, but she’d paid her fine, hadn’t she? Oh, God, that parking ticket. She’d gotten it at the beginning of the month... damn it, she’d known she should have paid it right when she got home. Stupid purse, stupid forgetful brain. They couldn’t arrest her for that, could they?

“...Reginald Wallis...” Raleigh blinked at the unfamiliar name, her attention zeroing in on the detective’s mouth. “...Ms. Davis?”

“Raleigh,” Raleigh said, still lost. “Who?”

“I told you she just woke up,” the nurse said from the door.

“The man you were found with, Ms. Davis.” The detective had apparently decided to ignore both her and the pepto-bismol colored doorstop.

Shit, shit, shit. Her head hurt.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She stared. What happened?

“Did you know Wallis?”

“No,” she breathed shallow. Anything more made her nauseous. “No. I didn’t. I was going to my car. He-”

“Wallis,” the detective interjected, scribbling on a notepad.

“-grabbed me. He- he- he-” ‘Stop blubbering, moron,’ she told herself sternly. “Jesus, can I get an Advil or something?”

“You’re on a morphine drip, Raleigh,” the nurse informed her gently.

“I’m being interrogated while you’ve got me on opiates?” Raleigh’s brows tugged together. “Seriously? Isn’t that... illegal or something?”

“You’re not being interrogated, Ms. Davis. We’re just looking to get an understanding of what happened.”

She turned her wide, glassy blue eyes on his cheap suit and thumb-stained notepad. Was he blind? Couldn’t he just look at her and see what the hell had happened? Did it look like she’d been out for a midnight stroll with a dear friend?

“You’re a very lucky young woman, Ms. Davis.”

“Am I?” she muttered acerbically.

“We’ve matched Wallis’ prints to several homicides in the county.”

She flexed her hand on the bedspread and immediately regretted it. “Color me surprised.”

“I’d really like to hear, in your words, what happened.”
“He grabbed me,” she said again, her eyes falling shut. “He tried to kill me.” Her voice sounded detached even to her. “We didn’t chat.”

“And then?”

“And then what?” she asked, exhausted and exasperated. “I thought I was dead. And then I woke up here. On totally ineffective morphine, apparently.”

“And Wallis was alive?”

“Obviously-” The word slipped off her tongue, before the sense of what the detective had said hit her. Dead. He was dead. Oh... oh... oh... oh, God. Had she- had she really-

{Yeah,} Stephen Dubner murmured in her gold-filled veins, {Brace yourself.}

That unlocking seed pod... that flurry of energy... that inception of golden radio talkshowhost... Shit, shit, shit... It was like it was happening all over again. Like that wash of formless hot liquid energy was wandering through the card catalogue of her brain, tugging out boxes and upending them, cards spilling out ineffectually all over the floor. Everything... everything was different. Not wrong. Maybe wrong. God, yes, wrong, according to everything she’d ever thought. She’d killed someone. Somehow. She knew, deep down, that that keyword ‘was’ was definitely her fault. She’d wanted his brain to explode.

“We’ve gotten confirmation from the morgue that his cause of death was an aneurism.”

Oh, goofy shit mother of fucking God. She’d killed a man. A murderer, okay. A batshit crazy asshole who’d beaten her up and then strangled her. Okay. But now she was the murderer, wasn’t she? The continuation of a cycle; the Red Violin; her humanity cracked and dusty and falling away.

{There is a phenomena that psychologists and economists talk about, the endowment effect. When something is yours, and when you’ve attached value to it, you inflate the value of it because it is yours.}

“Shut up,” she said, tired. "Please."

“You’re safe now, Ms. Davis.”

This time, she did laugh. And it hurt. But it was worth it. Safe. She’d never be safe again.

She was still laughing when the door closed behind the nurse and the detective. She could hear them, talking quickly outside the door. They probably thought she'd cracked. They were right if they did. She was sure she had to have. Because there were certain things she felt certain about all of a sudden and they were ridiculous. Either she was mad or the world was. It would be better if it were just her.

She had to stop laughing though. it was a manic sound, useless, built of nerves and, anyway, it made her feel as though someone were jiggling a rough iron rod around inside her ribs. Not a pleasant sensation. Slowly, carefully, she sat up in the bed and looked at the IV line pushing clear liquid into her already golden veins. She couldn't think. Could barely breathe, either, but that was secondary. She started picking at the surgical tape that held the IV in place, but she didn't have nails left to left the edges of the stuff and the tips of her fingers were red and raw. She managed to lift the barest corner before the nurse came back in and shooed her hand away.

"I can hear myself thinking," she said. Maybe she did need a psych consult. Thank God for all those hours watching Grey's Anatomy mindlessly.

"You're in shock. We can start weaning you off the morphine,


*****



She was still laughing when the door closed behind the nurse and the detective. She could hear them, talking quickly outside the door. They probably thought she'd cracked. They might be right. She had to have. Because there were certain things she felt certain about all of a sudden and they were ridiculous. Either she was mad or the world was. It would be better if it were just her. Or maybe it wouldn't. Who the hell was she kidding - it would be so much better if she wasn't crazy and all the aurulent liquid blood was actually...something... real. Real and part of her as she felt it was...Oh, yes, yes, yes.

{That's exactly right. It's tragic, isn't it, if you think about it?}

She had to stop laughing though. It was a manic sound, useless, built of nerves and, anyway, it made her feel as though someone were jiggling a rough iron rod around inside her ribs. Not a pleasant sensation. Slowly, carefully, she sat up in the bed and looked at the IV line pushing clear liquid into her already golden veins. She couldn't think. Could barely breathe, either, but that was secondary. She started picking at the surgical tape that held the IV in place, but she didn't have nails left to left the edges of the stuff and the tips of her fingers were red and raw. She managed to lift the barest corner before the nurse came back in and shooed her hand away.

"Rest now."

"My boss-"

"Your parents said they would contact him."

"My parents?"

"They arrived day before yesterday."

"Day before yeste- how long have I been out?"

"Three days."

Raleigh felt her face go slack. Three days? "How?"

"I'll have a doctor come in and explain it to you in the morning. For now, I want you to get some rest."

"What's wrong with me?"

"You were attacked."

"Yeah, but- I'm alive, right?"

The nurse offered an encouraging smile. "Yes, of course you are."

"But I was out for three days. Like a coma or...?"

"Your parents agreed with the doctors that it would be safer to induce a temporary coma to help reduce the swelling."

"What swelling?"

"Ms. Davis, it's much better if you speak with one of the doctors."

"They're not here." Raleigh watched the woman in her pink scrubs fiddle with the bags pouring their contents into her bloodstream. "Please."

"When the EMTs brought you in, you were in terrible shape. You weren't regaining consciousness, so they did a scan and found you had some swelling in your brain. Most likely the result of blunt trauma during your attack. The doctors wanted to give it time to ease down. They took you off the drugs this morning and you woke up. They'll do another scan to be sure, but it looks like you're just fine now."

Raleigh could physically feel her incredulity. She looked fine? Her brain... so maybe it wasn't real. Maybe it was an out of body experience thing; some kind of advanced hallucination. Maybe she'd just... but she hadn't. Hadn't. Couldn't have. She could still feel Dubner squirreling around inside of her like a lava fish squeezing through tiny tunnels.

{That is a bright side, absolutely a silver lining.}

"You should get some rest now. Press the red button if you need anything."

The overhead fluorescents were turned off, so that the only light in the room was from one long bulb right over her head. Who the hell designed these places - sadists?

Gingerly, she pressed her fingers against her forehead. There was a bandage on her left temple. Nothing near the back. Her hair felt greasy and dirty. She scrubbed the raw tips of her fingers against her scalp, prodding for lumps or bruises. She found some scrapes hidden under her hair that stung when touched, but nothing that felt really bad. Nothing worse that her chest anyway. As her fingers continued to map her head, she felt Dubner twitching, cat-like, in her veins.

“What?” In the silence that followed, she began to feel pretty silly for talking to herself. Annoyed, she went back to her poking and prodding.

She wasn’t entirely clear when or even how she’d fallen asleep, but she woke to the sound of her mother’s southern drawl berating the hospital staff for putting chopped green bell peppers onto a plate of pancakes.

“Morning, mama,” Raleigh murmured; her voice sounded like someone had driven over it with a tractor. She flinched as she watched her mother hurry to the bedside, for a moment terrified that she’d be swept up into a cuddle that would make her already aching rib cage collapse on itself. She didn’t though. Only sat quickly in the chair beside the bed and rested a warm hand on Raleigh’s thigh.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like someone beat me up and then pumped me full of coma drugs.” Raleigh squinted at the expression on her mother’s face. Yup. Horror at her daughter’s condition had not shaken a sense of humor into her. Someday, Raleigh hoped she’d find someone who found her dry wit even mildly humorous. “I’m okay,” she lied. “Really. I just want to go home.”

“I can’t believe you were walking back to your car all by yourself.”

Raleigh shut her eyes.

“It’s not safe. And I don’t like that... hole... you’re working at. It’s completely irresponsible for you to expose yourself to drunks and the sort of people who go to places like that.”

“It’s a job.”

“You should be focusing on your acting. That’s why you’re came to LA in the first place. We’ve told you, we can help-”

“You already do, Mom. You pay my insurance. So I can stay in nice places like this.”

“Raleigh.”

“I’m plugged into the wall. Can the lecture wait please?”

She watched her mother’s expression crumble into the one that always came before tears. Wasn’t she the one who was supposed to be crying now? How had the tables turned so quickly?

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s talking to the doctor outside.”

“I wanted to-”

“I ordered you pancakes and eggs.”

Raleigh blinked at the tray. Even if she’d been hungry - she wasn’t - the sight of things she wouldn’t have eaten on a good day didn’t stir anything. “I’m not-”

“You need to build your strength back up.”

“I don’t...” Raleigh looked at her lap. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. I can’t keep track of what you eat and what you don’t these days. I could get them to bring some bacon. Right. No pork. Turkey bacon?”

‘I’ve been vegan for four years...’ she thought and shut her eyes. “S’ok. Just not hungry. Can I talk to the doctor?”

“I’m sure you can, sweetie. Just let your dad find out what’s going on first.”

As it turned out, she didn’t get to speak to the doctor until after she’d been run to a brain scan and then brought back to sit pointlessly in her room, losing chess to her father and eating bad hospital food, for the rest of the day. When she finally did get face time with someone in a white coat, she was assured that the swelling they had “been concerned about” had retreated thanks to their quick action and that she could go home that day. They didn’t check her out until the next afternoon, and that was with warnings about checking in with her primary physician as soon as possible. And all the while, the aurulent Dubner twitched and paced inside her veins, burning and cooling, frustrated by her lack of progress at such a simple thing as leaving a hospital. He wouldn’t speak to her, but she knew he could hear. She’d spent her whole life learning to decipher disappointment from silence; Dubner was unimpressed.

Sitting in the backseat of her parents’ rental car, she rested her head against the window and listened to them talk inanely about politics. They were trying to be normal. Their casual chatter was forced and her father kept glancing at her in the rear view mirror. Worried. Well, why shouldn’t they be? They didn’t even know the half of it. They didn’t know anything, really, and for once she was sure that wasn’t just the normal thing kids think about their parents. They really didn’t know. They couldn’t possibly. Because they’d spent her whole life teaching her to look for the truth... but there wasn’t one. She’d known it always, on some level. No one God, no one Savior - neither had ever made sense to her, much to her mother’s dismay. No one side of an argument, no one party in politics... They’d put up with her wayward mind, encouraged her to think for herself. But this... this knowledge... this wasn’t thinking for herself. This was seeing after a lifetime of blindness.

She watched the people on the sidewalks walking, chatting, shopping, arguing, kissing, laughing...

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay at the hotel with us?”

She shook her head. “Just want home.”

“Well, we’re only ten minutes away, so if you want us to come during the night. Your father could stay on your sofa if you’d feel better.”

Raleigh looked back out of the window. ‘What exactly is Dad going to do if a murderer stalks through my door? Cook him an omelet?’ “I’ll be okay. The guy’s dead, after all, right? Not much he can do to me now.”

Her mother’s head swiveled like an owl. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. You don’t have to push us away. We’re your parents and we love you and-”

“I know. I love you too. I’m just tired. And I don’t want to put you guys out anymore.”

“You’re not-”

“You should go do something fun while you’re here. Take a bus tour or something.”

“She’s trying to get rid of us,” her mother murmured, as though Raleigh had suddenly gone deaf.

Her father, bless him, turned on the radio. But he still kept glancing back at her. He’d been giving her funny looks the whole time. She knew he had trouble expressing himself sometimes, but he’d never looked at her quite like this. It wasn’t concern. It was... confusion. Something like it. Maybe she was projecting. Sighing, Raleigh made herself stop watching him.

[End]